


Eating Crow

by strititty



Series: Demon Next Door [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Demonstuck, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Wingplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22905010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strititty/pseuds/strititty
Summary: A relationship unfolds between two people who probably ought not be in one.
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Dirk's Bro | Alpha Dave Strider
Series: Demon Next Door [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646401
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60





	Eating Crow

**Author's Note:**

> this is a follow-up to Separation Anxiety! if you were looking for a sequel to the dave storyline, sorry, that's not this fic //sweats. this fic is romance, kind of, and an excuse to write some role reversal porn.

Sometimes you catch glimpses of his wings.

David’s a demon, no bones about that, but the impression of wings is smooth pinions and silky feathers. You get the feeling if you actually saw them, they’d be not unlike the crows that still hang out on the roof, or sometimes peck at Dave’s window. They like to give you dirty looks, like they know why he left you.

Well. They probably do. Crows are smart as shit, and they saw your strifes on the roof. They always did like him. Wouldn’t surprise you if they were holding a grudge. At least you never _stabbed_ one. Stupid birds don’t know what’s good for ‘em.

(Not you. Of course not you.)

The nightmares are only getting worse the more you fuck around with your demon brother-impersonating stalker-turned-sort-of-lover, shapeless and dark and sitting on your chest like a weight. It feels like you’re gonna have a heart attack, sometimes, a sword sinking heavy and sharp through your ribcage. Gnashing teeth. Dave’s red eyes. The flutter of wings. 

You wake from one formless wing to another, just a maybe-maybe not shadow sweeping over your chest as David wraps an arm around you.

He’s not asleep, but he’s not talking. Weird. Not unheard of, but weird. He’s just staring at you from behind his shades, permanently glued to his face just about as tight as yours are. ...Would be, if he didn’t keep knocking them off while fucking you. You only know he’s awake by the fact that he starts tracing his nails in circles along your shoulder as soon as your eyes snap open.

You tilt your head to look at him more evenly, but his expression remains blank and closed as though he’s been studying at the school of Strider for years now. You’re not quite clear on how his whole devil bullshit works, so maybe he has been. 

“You wanna stop the shitty dreams, you probably oughta stop sleepin’ with me,” he says after a long, strange minute in the early morning darkness. 

It’s weakness. Insecurity. You smell it like blood in the water, like something you can pick pick pick at until you’ve made an actual demon fall apart. God is it fucking tempting. He likes you more than he ever wanted to and now he wants to make concessions. You’re not sure how deep it runs when he’s a literal demon, but you can just _feel_ it.

You could tear into him over this.

“Nah,” you say instead. “I’ve had worse.”

———

“How do you know all this shit about me?” you ask after the sixteenth reference to some bull that happened when you were a scrawny fifteen year old in the foster system that you know you never told him about.

David tips his shitty beer in your direction. “Trade secret, man. I can’t just tell you how things work, that’d be too easy. Imagine a world where things were _easy._ Some real fucked up shit, that.”

“You’d think hell would like it easy.”

He taps his temple. “Yeah, for demons. Easy peasy lemon-fucking-squeezy for us.” His mouth turns up at the corner in a smirk that you’re coming to associate with getting fucked out of your goddamn mind. “You, though? Come on, Bro. You’re the battered wife in this relationship. I can’t give away the game.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Thought you gave away the game when I found out about the horns and tail.”

“That was one game,” David says, leaning toward you. “Now I’m just havin’ fun.” His breath smells like cheap beer, doritos, and something burning beneath it. It’s the burning that really gets you, but you’ll be damned if you give in so fast. ...You’ll be damned either way, but whatever. You don’t kiss him first this time, and he pulls back after telegraphing an eye roll. “Why don’t you have a guess, huh? I wanna see what you come up with. Maybe I’ll tell you after, or maybe I’ll give you a reward if you figure it out. That’ll be nice, right? Tie you up, fuck you good like you like.”

“You’d do that anyway,” you point out. 

“Shit, I sure would, wouldn’t I. Guess it’s a reward for both of us.” His smirk widens, but at your flat stare he rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Fine, aight, how bout you set the terms, then? You figure out how I know everything, I’ll do something you want. Not exactly a deal for your soul, but I don’t fuck with those much anyway.”

You say what you want before you know that you want it.  
“Show me your wings.” 

Why that’s the first thing that comes out of your mouth is a mystery even to you, but when David’s movement stutters and his smirk gives way to surprise, you double down. “I figure it out, you show me those wings of yours.”

He’s as uncertain as you’ve ever seen him and it’s fucking _satisfying._ “Man, you don’t even know that’s possible. The fuck you askin’ for it for?”

“It’s possible, or you wouldn’t look so damn alarmed.” It’s your turn to be vaguely smug.

“Shut your whore mouth,” he says, breathing deep through his nose. His expression settles back down, not quite startled but still sour. “Yeah, man, fine. Deal.”

Shit, he’s _pouting._ That’s cute as hell.

———

“Mind reading.”

“Nah.”

“Stalking.”

“Nope.”

“Stalking Dave.”

“Yeah, no. That falls under stalking, dude.”

“Bureaucratic debriefing.”

“Aw, c’mon. Fuck no. Is this the best you got?”

“Possession.”

“For the love of fuck, man.”

———

It occurs to you a few nights later that you could’ve already guessed it and David lied. You wonder when you started to trust him enough to think that he wouldn’t lie to you. 

Somewhere between fucking you hard enough to make you fall apart and helping you try to get your relationships back together, David wormed his way past you defenses and took up residence in your heart. Ha, heartworm. Isn’t that a trick. They’re kind of similar, though, with the whole ‘making you feel bad just by existing’ thing. Jesus fucking wept, what are you doing?

David’s like Dave in a lot of ways. Most ways, even, from appearance to speech to gait. You know him, mostly, except when you don’t. He’s meaner, nastier, feistier--always calls you on your shit. It’s essentially his job, isn’t it. He’s not scared of you. He’s a thousand leagues more confident than you remember Dave being. He fucks like a dream and leaves you with nightmares.

The first time you wring a sincere smile out of him is with a perfectly ironic dick pun and it makes your stomach twist in a way you just barely recognize.

Fuck.

You don’t let it show on your face. Of course not. What are you, some kiddie pool bitch? But you look at him and you realize maybe you’re a little more fucked than you thought. 

Yeah, David can’t possibly be a mind reader, because if he knew what you were thinking right now that smile of his would turn stupid smug in two seconds flat. Or maybe he’d pull that pokerface on you again, that perfect flat affect you never could whip into Dave (and oh god, don’t think about whipping Dave, the nauseous regret it brings you is enough to drive you half-insane). He likes you, you know. He won’t cop to it, but he does.

Watching him now, smiling, talking about this that and the other, you think maybe being damned probably isn’t the worst thing that has ever happened to you.

———

You don’t give another guess for a few weeks. Gotta formulate a proper hypothesis, taking everything he’s ever said into account. You’re going to see those fucking wings come hell or high water, and hell’s already here.

David teases you about it for the first few days and lets it go for the rest, like not talking about it will make you forget about it. He should know you well enough to figure that’s never going to happen, and when you present your most recent theory he stares at you as cool and quiet as you’ve ever stared at anyone yourself.

“You formed with it,” you say. “Nobody needed to tell you because you just knew. You knew what you needed to to inflict as much pain as you could because it’s your purpose.” Pause. “Unholy osmosis. It’s how you work.”

The long, long stare you get would almost be unnerving if you weren’t Bro motherfucking Strider.

He laughs, then, short and dark and humorless. “Fuck, dude, just call me out like that. Honestly feeling so attacked right now. You really laid it all out there. I really didn’t think you’d get close, y’know. Too logical for ‘it’s basically pulled out of thin air at conception.’ You right, though, man, you got it. Close enough. Occam’s razor ain’t got nothing on you, you use that shit to shave every morning, complete with shaving cream that might or might not be demon cum--”

“David,” you cut him off, or try to.

“--and no I didn’t cum in your shaving cream, although that woulda been just desserts, really, because dude y’ain’t supposed to just come at a guy like that. Who am I kidding, you’re just the sort of social more-fucking grade A douche to tell it like it is. You took those social conventions and you fucked them _right_ in the ass. Got a perfect pussy right there and you just cornholed that motherfucker--”

“Stop being so fuckin’ nervous, Christ.” Your voice is deep and more exasperated than you intended.

“Kinda the opposite of Christ,” he replies on what you can only assume is instinct.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be a fuckin’ brat. Just show me.”

He stares at you, a bizarre little frown on his face, before sighing. “Yeah, aight. Give a man some space. Interplanar summoning is bullshit.”

Surprisingly, David really does get up and start clearing space, indiscriminately jamming your shit into corners without consulting you at all. You grimace at him while his back is turned, but he shrugs out of his blazer after a second of fucking around and making a nice clean circle for himself. He flings it to the couch, followed by his loosened tie and unbuttoned dress shirt.

David’s not ripped, exactly. Lean is a better word, with pale blond hair all across his chest and trailing down to his dick. You know how strong he is anyway, how deceitful those lithe lines are. 

“Prepare your fucking anus,” he says, pauses like someone does just before ripping off a bandaid, and then murmurs something that’s probably Latin. Probably.

Nothing happens at first, and then the air kind of… ripples. Pulses. It’s hard to define when, exactly, there are wings spreading from David’s back. It’s shadows given form in one wave, two, three, and then they’re as real as anything else in the room. You immediately understand why he cleared so much space.

His wingspan is enormous. Twelve feet, maybe a little more. They’re dark, black and iridescent and just this side of crow-like. He stretches them all the way out, gives them a ruffle, and then tucks them closer to his sides.

The air is heavy with them, almost sickening, worse and more physical than any response you’ve ever felt from him. You don’t allow your face to move. You are a stone cold motherfucker and this wave of Bad is gonna wash over you just like any other you’ve gotten from him. His expression is blatantly uncomfortable now and you focus on trying to figure out why. Is this too intimate for him? Is it physically unpleasant? Both? Neither?

“Well? Can I put these fuckers away now or what, Bro?”

You realize you’ve been quiet for too long by the impatient, nearly anxious note in his voice. 

Something’s off about the way you sound when you speak. “Nah.” Raspy, you think.

David practically scowls at you. “Show and tell’s great and all but this ain’t exactly sustainable, aight?”

“Why not?” You take a step closer, note the shiver that runs through his feathers. It’s almost like they have a mind of their own, rustling like that.

“They ain’t meant to be here, okay? They’re--” he stops as you reach out and trace the fine edge of one flight feather. It feels damp, but your hand doesn’t come away wet. It’s silky. You touch it again and he _shudders,_ making a noise you’ve never heard while he’s fucking you. Something throaty. Something vulnerable.

You grin. “Sensitive?”

“Not a fuckin’ bit, I never been sensitive in my life,” he lies, ineffective and rough. “They’re planar disasters, man, they fuck everything up. Bet you’re feelin’ em right now, babe. Closest thing to my true form you’re ever gonna get and it ain’t pretty.”

“I’d say they’re pretty as hell, actually.”

Holy fucking shit, David blushes. His feathers bristle and he blushes like he’s running a fever. “Yeah, okay, they’re giant wings. Of course they’re pretty, I was talkin’ bout side effects and you know it. You tellin’ me you don’t wanna throw up right now?”

Okay. Yeah. You sorta do. It’s so fucking worth it to see David so off his game, though. “I’ll live.” And you run your hand through his feathers and watch him hunch over, trying to contain a thick moan. He doesn’t succeed. It’s probably one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen, and you’ve seen a lot of hot shit.

“Fffffuck I shoulda known you’d get off on this shit,” he groans. “Just had to touch the wings, didn’t you? Had to go and stick your grubby hands right on in?”

You run your finger down the soft filaments of a primary. “You want me to stop?”

It’s honest of you. You would stop, if he wanted you to, you’d drop the whole damn thing. You’re still surprised when he actually seems to consider calling the whole thing off. The situation must be pretty fucked up if a demon’s thinking about calling it quits.

A long pause, your hand unmoving, his breath trembling when it never does, and then he shakes his head. “Fuck me, I don’t.” He almost sounds surprised himself, and you can only figure this is somehow a first for him. Well. Better make it good.

Permission secured, you pet the length of his wing, top to bottom, and David makes a sound like you killed him. He also nearly knocks you over flapping said wing, which. Not ideal. Maybe stick to smaller, softer touches. Figuring this out, mapping this, mentally marking each sensitive spot--you don’t think you’ve been so interested and attentive during sex in years. God, is this sex? It has to be sex. David’s pitching a tent like no other and whimpering at almost every move you make. It’s pathetic and attractive and it makes your stomach clench again.

This is the guy who’s ripped you apart on more than one occasion and never let you do the same. Now that you’re returning the favor, it’s intoxicating. 

You shift around to his back, just to see. His wings are attached all along his spine instead of just at his shoulder blades, small dark feathers bridging the gap along his vertebrae. It’s safer back here, you think, to give him a full length run of your nails across his downy skin, and you’re immediately proved wrong with how he cries out and gives a few powerful flaps. You have to duck to avoid getting smacked.

His chest is heaving when he settles again. “Fuck, Bro,” he chokes out in this wonderfully broken voice.

He already sounds so thoroughly wrecked that when you go to work open his belt and fly, you’re not actually shocked at the sticky wet spot on his briefs. 

“Damn,” you say anyway, and lean against his back to give him a sharp bite on the side of his neck, no holds barred. Payback for all the times he’s done it for you. “Already creamed your panties and I barely even started. This is gonna be fun.”

David whines like an animal and oh _fuck_ is it fun. Everything you do drags a new noise out of him. He’s so worked up from fucking with his wings that even touching on his skin just drives him half out of his mind, but you like the wings. You stay with the wings until he’s sobbing and so weak at the knees that he ends up on the floor, and then you give both of you a breather while you idly palm your dick.

“David,” you start. Your own voice is thick and gravely and if it weren’t for the strange persistent nausea that his newfound unholy aura inspires in you you probably already would’ve cum yourself. He acknowledges you with a grunt, his wings furled protectively around himself even though you know he likes this just as much as you. “Whaddya think would happen if I did some pluckin’?”

He shoots bolt upright and gives you a wild-eyed look, shades left on the floor with the suddenness of his movement. “Sh-shit--fuck, I don’t--shit man, I don’t know. I mean--I do know--just--not like this, no one ever-- _fuck._ Y’can’t--do this to me, man, I’m ffffuckin’--goin’ insane.”

His eyes are red as blood and puffy like he’s been sobbing, which. He has been. You’ve made damn sure of that.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s pretty hot.” 

He swears at you in Latin or Daedric or whatever the fuck and rubs at his face. “Shit on a fuckin’ shingle, people aren’t supposed to do this to me.”

“Do a lot of things I’m not supposed to, apparently.” 

“Seriously, I,” he hiccups a laugh, “seriously expected you to fall over puking when I summoned these babies or some shit, they’re sort of emeto fuel, but of course not. Great ice block Strider somehow stayin’ cool in Houston sun.”

“Damn straight.”

“There ain’t nothin’ straight about this, Bro.”

“ _Damn_ straight.”

“Haha, fuck.” David almost collapses forward, landing chest first on the ground, and laughs some more. “Strike me the fuck down, dude. Tell me I can put these away. Tell me you’re done here. I think you might actually kill me if you keep going. I might actually die and that would suck so much ass. Not even the fun kind of ass-sucking.” 

You pretend to mull it over, but nod your acquiescence after a minute of making him sweat. “Yeah, sure.”

He sags in visible relief and mutters something that makes the air pulse again. One, two, three, goodbye wings.

The room feels so much lighter with them gone.

Now there’s just a sweaty, cum-sticky demon on your floor and absolutely none of that cum is yours. That’s not gonna fly. “Remember your safeword,” you tell him.

“We don’t have a fuckin’--aughh, you’re seriously not done?” he groans as you descend on him, practically tearing his pants and underwear down to his knees. That rump is fresh for the plundering and you’re not leaving him be until you’ve had it.

“If someone hadn’t been so selfish…” You don’t bother to finish, mostly because you have to flashstep to grab some lube.

David presses his face into the carpet and makes a noise of deep complaint. “The fuck was I supposed to do, Bro? Be a sphinx and riddle me that. You know how hard it is to focus when someone’s doing that shit?” 

Without his wings in play, he keeps his voice much more steady, even while you do some cursory lubing. “No idea,” you say, and then jerk his hips up so you can fuck your way into him. He’s hot and tight and good and squeezes around you just right, even if he’s not a sobbing mess anymore.

“It is not fuckin’ easy.” He has the gall to sound like you’re not even fucking him now, though some of the fractures from dicking down on his wings are still there. His nails dig into the carpet and the heavy flush hasn’t left him, red to the tips of his ears and down his neck. “I never let anyone do that before, you know that? You’re one lucky bitch.”

The confession does something weird to your heart that you steadfastly ignore.

“You’re one noisy bitch,” you reply, take a fistful of his hair, and shove his face right into the rug.

His muffled complaints follow you all the way to jizzing in his ass, and when you finally let him up he complains some more. It’s a happy kind of complaining, though, and that makes it less annoying and more endearing.

———

You have the worst nightmare of your life.

When you wake up, you’re frozen, jaw aching, railway spike driving through either temple, heart pounding. You attempt to flashstep to the bathroom before you choke on your own sick and end up sprawled out across the floor before you’ve taken one step. 

You have experience getting stains out of carpet, but this is fucking rank. Nevermind that you smell like ass and you’re covered in sweat, hair damp and sticky. 

An hour long boiling hot shower has you feeling barely human enough to do some work. Not like you’re getting back to sleep any time soon. Dave’s blood won’t come off your hands and you can still feel feathers shoving themselves down your throat. It was a real, visceral thing and the ghost of it brushes across the back of your neck. 

Your fingers are trembling. 

You ignore them.

———

“Fuck, you look like shit.”

You treat David with a middle finger. His presence isn’t surprising - you heard him open the door, your guard isn’t that far down - but the amused expression on his face is annoying. 

“Aw, babe, don’t be like that. I’m just tellin’ it how it is. You want me to make you some soup? Homemade chicken noodle. Only the best. I’ll only spit in it a little bit. Done you dirty enough already the past day.” Pause. “Okay, nah, you don’t have any food in this apartment at all, do you. Nevermind. Healing properties of doritos it is.”

He finds a bag and pops it open, dropping it next to you. You save your work and turn to give him a dark look. “You did this to me.”

David snorts. “You did this to yourself. I told you you oughta stop fuckin’ me, and what’d you turn around and do? The exact opposite.” He grabs some chips for himself, starts munching, talks with his mouth full like an animal. “This is a well-deserved demonic hangover, bitch. Welcome to the real world. There are consequences to your actions.”

No shit. Of course there are. He’s one of those consequences. Hell is real and it spat a demon at you.

“Look at your _face,_ ” he laughs. There are dorito crumbs everywhere. Why do you even like this little shit. “This is pathetic. What’d you think was gonna happen? Fist a demon’s soul, get off scot-free? No, no way. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, you were never gonna get out of this one alright. That’s like expecting acid from Jeremy down the street not to give you the worst trip possible.”

Wait.

“Your wings are part of your soul,” you interrupt his Jeremy-hating tirade just to confirm that particular tidbit of information.

He hesitates for a split second longer than he would if he actually didn’t care. “Yeah, no shit. I told you they’re true form material, didn’t I? Shit, man, keep up. Do I need to slow down? Man starts pushin’ forty and his brain just stops working? Unless you’re still thinking with your dick, which. Gotta say. Impressive while you’re rockin’ the bird flu look.”

What the fuck. David let you touch part of his actual soul.

You stare at him for another long minute.

He keeps talking right up till you grab a fistful of his tie and reel him in for a kiss that tastes… orange. Cheesy, nasty orange. The way he seamlessly goes from chattering to macking on you is impressive, you’ll give him that. Also impressive: when you let him go, he immediately starts up again. 

The running background noise has become a staple of your day-to-day life. Not like he has anywhere else to go. His existence, here and now, is for you. He won’t leave as long as he can give you shit. Another person completely dependent on you, and you like it. 

That’s kinda fucked up, isn’t it?

“Bro, I can hear the gears turning and I’m tellin’ you, just stop. Thinking never did you any favors.” David’s voice sharpens just enough to slice through your train of thought and draw your attention back to him. 

“It’s done me fine.” Liar.

“Haha, you know what else has done you fine? Me. Might even say I did you better than thinking ever has. Take a break from that bitch, come and meet your new mistress.” David grabs another fistful of doritos. Somehow, in spite of his noisy crunching, he hasn’t gotten any crumbs on his suit at all. That’s talent. “I’m all dolled up and ready to slap you stupid.”

“You don’t want to slap me right now,” you tell him. He was just saying shit about how pathetic you look. ...And it would hurt like a motherfucker. You don’t need him to drive this headache into a migraine.

He raises his eyebrows at you. “Au contraire, asshole, I’d slap you any time and you’d thank me for it. I haven’t seen a guy who needs to get dommed as bad as you in a thousand years.”

You consider this.

“Cranky because I topped, huh.”

David scoffs and flicks a chip at you. You catch and eat it, as is traditional. It’s tradition now. You’ve just decided. “Nah, fam, I’m just tellin’ it like it is. Top all you want, your ass is grass and you want it mowed. You’re what we in the business call a bottom cursed to live the top life because you’re jacked. Sad story, really. Lucky for you I know how to deliver.”

You grunt in acknowledgement. It’s a neutral sound and he takes it running like rapturous agreement, because of course he does. When did you get used to this.

When did you start liking this?

———

You think about what it means to finger someone’s soul so hard they cry.

It’s probably not great.

That’s about as far as you’ve gotten with your newfound regret-forced morals. Most of you is slick and self-satisfied about the fact that you got someone to trust you so completely that they let you touch them that deep. A smaller part of you is unhappy you did it because of the goddamn backlash. Even now, a few days later, there’s an echo of pain inside your skull.

Not enough pain to stop you from sleeping with or next to David, but it’s there. Pain is secondary. 

He’s warm next to you, half-naked, shades discarded next to the futon. You lost yours in the preceding fuck, which was as hot and brutal as most of what you do with him. Your aches are worse for it and you don’t care.

After sex he always smells a little like burning. Sometimes he blows smoke in your face like an imitation cig and sometimes he doesn’t. He likes to have an arm around you. Usually, he’ll talk shit for a while and then buzz off or pass out. He hasn’t taken his shades off for a routine peel-you-apart and snuggle before. 

Once you’ve fingerfucked a guy’s soul, you guess him taking off his rad eyewear doesn’t really matter.

“What did it feel like?” you interrupt whatever inane monologue David was running.

He takes it in stride. “Your ass? Babe, you got the world’s finest. Bounce a coin off that fucker, am I right? Nice and tight for Daddy’s c--no. Nah. Not going there yet.”

Interesting. Not what you asked for, but interesting. You’ll remember daddy kink for later. 

“No,” you say. “When I touched your wings. What did it feel like?”

David stills and falls quiet for a moment. It’s long enough that you think he’s just locked up and you’re not gonna get anything before he answers. 

“You ever been fisted, dude?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Of course you have. That feeling--that hugeness feeling, the one where you’re not sure you ever had something so big wigglin’ around there in your life, knowin’ if the person doing it really wanted to they could open their hand and fuck up all your guts. It’s like that, except all over and you can’t make wings have an anal prolapse.”

David’s eyes are plain and honest with a touch of humor. Seeing his full expression is a trip and a half. 

“You let me do that to you.”

Benefits to the trip: you can see when he rolls his eyes. “I sure as shit did, didn’t I? If a demon doesn’t let a repentant child abuser metaphorically fist him once in his life, what is he even doing? You still thinkin’ bout this, Bro? Got a lot on your mind?”

He’s getting that smug look on his face again and, as always, you want to punch him for it. You also want to kiss him for it.

You grunt instead. “Stupid move, letting someone at your soul like that. It’ll get you killed.”

“You gonna kill me, man?” David sounds like he thinks this is fucking hilarious. “Gonna make me do interplanar summoning again just to break some bird bones? Gimme the old snap crackle pop? Puh-lease. You went soft as granny’s cookies on me as soon as I fucked you to hell.”

You want to argue with that. You do. Instead you say, “Like you haven’t on me,” and he quiets down some. His expression gets gentler, about as soft as you’ve just accused him of being.

“Yeah,” he says, “I sure have.”

David reaches and pats your cheek, a little condescending, a little fond, and you give him a slant-mouthed stare while thinking about kissing him. Such is the state of your relationship.


End file.
